I hadn’t thought of this before but i got my first request from someone to be on a tag list for beast of burden, so consider this my official tag list post??
if anyone wants to be added to the tag list drop a comment and i will add you!!
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ Dick Grayson x Reader . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
Masterlist
✧ Summary
You’re a good journalist. Intern. Whatever. But you’ve yet to make your mark. When a series of mysterious crimes that could change the landscape of investigative journalism in Blüdhaven crosses your desk, however… inadvertently, you decide this is your sign to act.
Nightwing, the figure at the center of the mystery, isn’t so sure.
⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ Word Count // 3057. ݁₊ ⊹
The moment your feet leave the ground you are clawing at Nightwing’s shoulders and latching your arms around his neck. You cannot even scream because the sudden drop off the side of the building steals your breath, so you shut your eyes and tuck your chin in, burying your cheek against his chest. Then there is a the sound of metal on metal and jarring snap, and it is like you are floating. You open your eyes and find a half-buzzed Nightwing looking down at you with a small smile, fingers curling against your back. He turns his attention back to the wire he’s holding with his opposite hand, but you can see the stupid dimple from his grin. You can hear his heart, steady and even, not even quickening with the drop. The cold wind prickles against your bare skin, and you hate the laugh he huffs when you press closer to the warmth of his body.
“I’m going to kill you-“ you breathe, throat dry.
“Many have tried.”
He lowers the two of you by slowly slackening the line. When his feet pad softly on the street, he recalls the grapnel and tucks it away at his hip. It takes you a long time to remember that you have legs - and a brain - and push off of him.
Your knees wobble a little once you’re on the ground. Nightwing reaches out to balance you but retracts his hand and averts his eyes. You look down to find your dress rolled all the way up your thighs. While you adjust it, he clears his throat loudly and takes a deep breath.
“Well, I assume you have a place to stay?”
You shake your head. “I was just going to head home tonight, my car is a couple blocks up.” You point in the general direction of the parking garage, then realize he has taken you to an unfamiliar area. You’d been too busy panicking to make a mental map.
He turns back like you’d told him you planned to curb stomp a puppy.
“You were drinking!”
“I had like two sips of -“ you eye him. “Why do you know that?”
You hadn’t mentioned anything about it, and any rational journalist knew not to drink on a job. That was assuming he believed you were rational.
“You were in a club,” he answers, crossing his arms.
“Okay, well, you were drinking too, you admitted it.” you mimic his disappointed posture and expression. “Swinging is more dangerous than drinking and driving. Where are you going to stay?”
“I know a guy. You’re not driving an hour back to Bludhaven at four am after a drink and almost getting assaulted.” You flushed at the mention.
“I was fishing for information. I knew what I was getting into.” There is a long beat of silence, then Nightwing is crossing the alleyway, dipping his head to catch your lowered gaze. “It didn’t give him the right to touch you like that. I was twenty feet away and half blocked by a ledge and I could see you were uncomfortable. If he couldn’t, maybe he needed that cranial adjustment I gave him.”
You turn your face away, and you hear a drawn out sigh.
“Listen, I definitely don’t like that you seem to go out of your way to find danger, don’t get me wrong, but that doesn’t mean that any of what he was doing is on you. Got it?”
His voice is thick, weighted. You nod without looking at him.
“Would’ve been nice to at least get some intel out of it.” You murmur. “I feel like im chasing my tail.” You hated to say it out loud, you both already knew it was true anyway, so this was like salt in the wound of your dying career.
“About that,” Nightwing says, lifting a hand to reveal a small slip of paper tucked between two fingers. A card. You take it from him and flip it over to examine the text.
OSWALD COBBLEPOT
COBBLEPOT STEEL
848-555-1121
“How-?” he snatches the paper from your fingers with a self-satisfied smirk, waving it in the air like a fan. The small gust pushes his hair off his forehead, revealing a faint white scar running across his hairline.
“I told you I had connections.”
You glare at him.
“I’ll make you a deal. I’m meeting with Ozzie tomorrow,” he holds up a hand when your lips part to interject. “Alone.”
“But, I will share with you my findings; on one condition.”
“I’m not dropping the investigation.”
“God, no. I know better than to ask you that by now. No. However, you’ve got to put some work into your detective skills. And your self defense.” He bobbles his head from side to side, “Mostly self defense.”
You purse your lips, a little offended but knowing he was probably right.
“You’re relentless. It’s a good thing, you persevere. But you’re also headstrong and it blinds you. You want to prove yourself so badly that you don’t realize you need work to im-prove yourself. Get it?” He winks at you with a shit eating grin you want to punch him for.
“So, what? I sign up for a gym?”
He tilts his head one way, then another.
“Nah, don’t waste the money. You’ll get better training from me anyway.”
“You’ve got the time for that?”
“Anything for you, pretty. But first, let’s get you somewhere warm.”
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
Nightwing walked you two blocks north before telling you to cover your eyes. You gave him an incredulous look and begrudgingly complied, but he decided he did not trust you to stifle your curiosity and opted for a blindfold made from a strip of fabric from his utility belt instead.
Then he guided you what felt like another mile on your aching heels, but he wouldn’t let you take your shoes off. Fuck Gotham and its nasty goddamn streets. You heard him go through a door and you were in blessed artificial heat for all of thirty seconds before he led you out the other side, up a small set of concrete stairs, through a space so narrow you scraped your shoulder on bricks and something suspiciously wet. You gave up trying to map the distance in your head. You were sure he was convoluting the route in case you were counting steps and keeping track of turns. It was clever, and fair, but still annoying. By the time he stops and peels the blindfold off your head you’re certain you’d have been sober enough to drive anyway.
It takes a long while for your body to allow your eyes to open fully, burning and watering beneath the harsh white overheads.
“Is this…” you turn in a full circle, taking in the high brick walls, the corner packed with training equipment, the rack of bo-staffs and nunchucks and batarangs, the half-wall of monitors and equipment projecting camera feeds and blinking code you couldn’t decipher.
“Are we in the Batcave?”
Nightwing’s lips quirk as he tucks the blindfold away in his pocket.
“Hah! you wish.” He presses the door shut with an amount of effort that makes you think the thing must weigh five hundred pounds.
“No, just a safe house.” He takes in the stars in your eyes as you look over the room and grins. “I think if you saw the real Batcave your head might explode.”
You make a pff sound, but honestly? He’s probably right. There’s a small setup that’s something like a half formed kitchen, a short granite counter complete with a shallow sink, a hotplate housing a single pan caked with burnt food residue, and an electric kettle. Just a few feet away, crammed into a nook despite the massive space available, was a single set of bunk beds with six inch mattresses and thin gray sheets.
“Wow,” you drawl, crossing over to caress the cold metal latter to the second bunk.
“It’s not the Ritz,” Nightwing admits. “But I’m honestly a little strapped for cash right now, so this is what we’ve got.”
You were feeling more and more certain that he wasn’t worried about you driving and rather was just looking to keep you out of Bludhaven for a night.
“Why don’t you ask Bruce Wayne for a raise?”
Nightwing doesn’t answer.
You turn to find him staring at you, lips locked tight, hands balled into fists. There was a small crease between his brows growing larger by the second, the whites of his mask blown wide.
“He… sponsors Batman, doesn’t he?” You ask sheepishly, unsure where you’d misstepped.
“I just assumed he’d sponsor. . . other heroes . . .” You trail off, made awkward by his stiff posture and scary face. His throat bobs.
He doesn’t comment on the fact that you’ve admitted he’s a hero, or say anything that he thinks is funny at all, really, which unnerves you.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Maybe.”
You turn back to the unmade beds, flapping a sheet across the bottom bunk. By the time you’re tucking in the corners your brain has started analyzing the twitch of his jaw, the tightness of his posture.
What the hell was wrong with him? Was he actually drunk?
Another thought comes back to you, then, unbidden but vivid.
“I’m taking you to the cab myself this time.”
This time. This time. The words swirl in your head.
Had there been a first time?
He’d walked you straight home the night you’d met. The second time he hadn’t even bothered making sure you left the scene before disappearing. The third he’d come straight to you and left you in your house.
Could he have been watching you since the moment you walked into the club? If so, why hasn’t he stopped you sooner? Could he not go in wearing his costume?
There’s a crash and the clatter of metal behind you. You stand up to see Nightwing with a rigid spine already watching you, hands tucked behind his back like a kid who’d been messing with something he wasn’t supposed to. Behind him half the rack of titanium bo staffs had fallen to the floor, one rolling as far as your toes before bouncing to a slow stop.
What was up with him?
“You should get some rest” he says, scratching the back of his neck. he squats to scoop up the mess he’d made, hands clumsy.
“I don’t know if I can. This is…” you shake your head, turning to the wall of computer displays. You run a curious finger along a keyboard but hesitate to push any buttons. “I feel like I’m really on the inside now.” Nightwing groans.
“You aren’t. You’re a leech, just like every other wannabe reporter sniffing around.” The harshness of his tone startles you until his mouth curls into a nervous smile. A bad joke. He makes his way slowly to the desk and presses a few buttons. All the screens go black at once.
“in case you were getting any ideas.” He says, brandishing a small piece of equipment - a hard drive? - he plucked from one of the towers.You frown at his lack of trust, but he was right. You had been getting ideas.
“You’re making coffee?” You ask as he pulls the canister of instant espresso from one of the small, squeaky cabinets, padding after him like a cat. “It’s like two am.” He doesn’t bother heating up the water, just dumps it into a shaker-bottle with a faded gym logo on it and adds the powder.
“No rest for the wicked. You interrupted me, remember? I’m off schedule.”
It doesn’t really click what he means until he heads for the door.
“You’re not staying.”
“Nah, sweetheart. Crime to fight, asses to kick, you know how it is.”
“Always so mysterious.” you drawl, narrowing your eyes.
“You want to get to know me, gorgeous, just say the word.” He shoots you a wink. You know he’s teasing you, but you take the shot anyway.
“Who is your secret identity?”
He frowns dramatically.
“I’m more than my pretty face, you know. I love dogs and long walks on the beach, I hate the smell of artificial coconut. I’ve got layers.”
You glare at him. He shoots you a wink, taking a long draught of his “coffee”. You can still see the particles of instant coffee floating unmixed in the water. hHe winces when it hits his tongue.
“What was the point in not letting me see the way here if you’re just gonna leave me on my own, how am I supposed to get back?”
He takes a slow breath, like he hadn’t considered that.
“I’ll send a car. In the morning.”
“A car. I thought you were broke?”
“It’s all about who you know, babe.”
“Who you know” turned out to be an old man with taut white skin and a tall nose above a thin mustache. His brows had an elegant arch, his hair dark and spine astonishingly straight despite his apparent age. He wore a neatly pressed black suit and spoke with a posh english accent.
“Miss (name), I presume?”
You nodded, eyes still blurry from sleep. Nightwing had neglected to turn the lights off and you’d found no switch. You’d spent half the night trying to turn the computers back on and rifling through cabinets for anything interesting. When the only yield had been a few notes scribbled in neat handwriting - a paper which was now stuffed into your bra - you had given up. The only reason you’d managed to get even an hour of rest was because you tied a pillowcase around your head to hide from the light.
It was a little embarrassing to be in front of a man so finely dressed in your clothes from the night before, hair mussed from mistreatment, but he didn’t seem to be judging you.
“My name is Alfred, I’ve heard a lot about you.”
You blink.
“You have?”
Alfred chuckles and reaches into his pocket.
“Oh, yes, you’re quite the subject of debate in recent days.”
Before you can question him he produces a thin strip of fabric from his pocket.
“I hope you’ll forgive me, but Nightwing did insist.”
He allows you to secure the blindfold over your own eyes and guides your hand through his elbow so he can lead you out the door. He opens the car door for you, patient as you feel for the opening and tuck yourself into the back seat. Your cheeks flush at the thought that you have no idea where you are.You can hear cars and the distant sounds of morning beginning in gotham, but you’re entirely unaware of your surroundings. You have the thought that you probably look like a hooker playing into some strange fetish. For the sake of your sanity, you tell yourself that the entrance to a vigilante safe house would not be on a public road.
Once you’re secured in the seat and buckled at Alfred’s insistence, he circles to the front seat. Only when the car purrs to life and begins to move do you realize you’re blindfolded in the back of a stranger’s sedan. Not your smartest move.
After a minute or two, he calls back to you.
“You may take off the blindfold now, ma’am. and again please accept my apologies.”
You shake your head as you peel the fabric off. “No worries.” Out the window, Gotham rolls by at a lazy morning pace, the streets still orangey with the colors of sunrise yet to be impeded by the city’s characteristic gloom. You don’t know gotham’s layout well, but based on the signs it does seem that Alfred is taking you back to Bludhaven.
It takes you a while to work up the courage, but eventually you ask.
“Who are you, anyway? To Nightwing, I mean.”
You watch his face - or what you could see of it - in the rearview mirror, his wrinkled forehead and his hard blue eyes. He peeks back at you, and you swear you see his eyes wrinkle.
“There are many answers to that question, most of which you’ll understand I cannot give you.”
You nod, you’d assumed as much.
“But i will tell you this, I am someone who cares for him, and who wishes to see him succeed. No matter how… misguided I believe his actions have been in recent days.” He drew out the words in a low, wine smooth cadence. You understood what he meant.
“I don’t mean him any harm.” You say defensively.
“I know that, but intention and outcome are two very different things. Nightwing is stubborn, but it is because he cares. And right now, very much like yourself, he feels that he has something to prove. He is a resilient young man, but he is only human.”
“I can’t give up on this. I know he wants to save everybody, but I never asked for his protection.”
“You misunderstand me.” Alfred says, pulling into the garage where you’d left your car the night before. Without instruction, he pulls up to the third floor of the garage and parks the car directly beside your own. Nightwing must have hacked the security cameras. It was a little creepy how much information he could get so quickly.
“He wants to protect you, because he believes that it is his responsibility to protect everyone.” He turns in his seat to meet your eyes. His gaze is tired and his eyes baggy, but the look he gives you is sharp.
“But right now he is without anyone to protect him.”
You shift uncomfortably, not wanting to get out of the car just yet.
“You seem pretty keen to.”
He smiles sadly.
“He listens less and less to reason these days. Maybe you could change that.”
The conversation didn’t feel quite over. You wanted to argue, but Alfred turned back around in his seat and unlocked the doors. You slid out with a quiet thanks and returned to your own car. Only when Alfred had pulled away did you reach into your bra and pull out the crumpled sheet of paper. It seemed like notes on some string of crimes that must have been resolved long ago due to how deeply it had been buried beneath other folders. But you swore you’d seen the handwriting before. . .
In a magazine.
You reached behind your seat to the stack of emergency reading you kept tucked into the slot there. You sifted through the old issues of Gotham Times to one you recognized, Bruce Wayne and his sons on the cover. You flipped to the middle and sifted until you found it. Your breath stilled as you looked over the paper, a scanned photo of a page of motivational words scribbled in blue pen. You set the note you'd stolen next to it and swallow thickly.
No way.
You look back to the title of the page, because you couldn't really make yourself believe it. But there it was in bold letters, plain to see.
A Letter From Dick Grayson.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
A/N
Guys I'm so sorry I disappeared for like almost a month but IM BACK!!
I had to finish my summer semester finals and move but now I'm settled in and all that is over. I feel like this chapter is not that good but I wanted to put something out bc I was starting to feel evil. I'll be starting my fall semester soon so updates might stay slow but I'm gonna put as much time into this as possible. I hope you guys like this chapter, better things coming!!
chat i swear i am not slacking im in the finals week of my summer semester and getting ready to move so im lowkey #gettingmyasswhooped but beast of burden part five is in the works!!!!!!!!
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ Dick Grayson x Reader . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
Part One here
Part Two here
Part Three here
✧ Summary
You’re a good journalist. Intern. Whatever. But you’ve yet to make your mark. When a series of mysterious crimes that could change the landscape of investigative journalism in Blüdhaven crosses your desk, however… inadvertently, you decide this is your sign to act.
Nightwing, the figure at the center of the mystery, isn’t so sure.
Kinda long chapter today, lowkey my proudest work on this series so far :3
The music in the iceberg lounge is offensively loud. you’d been under the impression this was a high-class environment, which would explain the outrageous cover cost and the strings you had to pull to be let in. However, tonight it seemed a place of debauchery, the white overhead lights were low, streaks of colorful projections arcing through the smoky air. The place smelled like liquor, sweat, and stale cigars covered by expensive cologne.
The lead that Elise had offered you ended up being of little help except to point you in the direction of a bigger fish. The steelworks factory that Sionis had ordered robbed was in Penguin’s territory. Elise's source - a man who wouldn’t show his face much less give you a name - alleged that this gave the Penguin a special interest in seeing the buyer caught. Everyone knew that Cobblepot wasn’t against working on the side of the law every now and again, when it served his interests. But you had to figure out a way to get to him.
You were sitting at the bar, sipping a coke you’d asked the bartender to give you in a short glass. You'd made quick conversation with him, but he seemed terribly busy and even more terribly uninterested in indulging your questions about how often the Penguin leaves his office. You sipped your soda, ignoring the man shimmying up beside you at the bar until his hot breath and the press of his body intruding your space became unbearable. You shuffle sideways on your barstool and swallow your gag to turn a sly smile on him.
“Can I help you?” you ask lowly.
“I thought maybe I could help you.” The guy answers. He’s tall, bulky, with dark hair and hard eyes. He’s not bad looking, but the smell rolling off of him is rank. “Gregory,” he says, offering a hand.
“Malia.” You take his hand, keeping your grip soft. Better to not give him a real name in case one day your findings are published under your name.
One day.
“Malia,” he echoes, “Why don’t you let me buy you a drink?”
You hope your laugh sounds less forced than it is.
“Why don’t you let me finish this one first, big guy.” You answer, patting his wrist like he’s getting way ahead of himself.
“So, Gregory," you say, rolling the name over on a soft voice, tipping your chin down. “What do you do for work?”
A small, malicious smile splits his face, but as he opens his mouth to answer there’s a rush of noise from the opening lounge. Your head spins to follow it and you see a crowd gathering, pushing and ebbing. Voices rise then fall to a hushed wave.
When the press of bodies thins, you catch sight of a young man fixing the cuffs of an immaculately cut suit. His blazer hangs open, he wears no tie. There wouldn’t be a place to put it with the way his cream button down was undone to expose a the hard muscle of his smooth-shaved chest. A bottle girl approaches him with a tray and a grin, and he takes the expensive champagne she offers by the neck, swigging directly from the bottle. You take in the deep tan skin, dark waves of hair, his straight nose, sharp jaw, and killer smile.
For a moment, squinting through the smoke and flashing lights, you’re sure you know him from somewhere.
You turn back to Gregory, realizing too slowly that he might not want to tell you all about his secret dealings if you were caught staring at another man. Only to find that he, too, was enraptured. So you try your luck with the bartender closest to you. You lean over the bar, lowering your voice as much as possible with the blaring music, which turned out to still be close to a yell.
“Who’s the guy with the face?” You ask her, and her eyes snap to you. You jut your head towards the commotion and her eyes sparkle.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Dick Grayson?” She muses with a teasing grin. When your face falls slack with recognition she tosses you a wink and moves on to take orders farther down the bar.
“Dick Grayson,” you echo to nobody in particular, turning back to look at him. He has a loose, limber motion about him and an easy, seductive smile. He’s already lounging with his legs wide at one of the round booths that have suspicious stains on the plush seats. His arms are tossed over the backs of the seats around two women, one the bottle girl from earlier in a sparkly dress and the other a redhead who looks half-gone in her drink. All around them people gather, and Grayson wastes no time making greetings and buying drinks. You scoff at the sight.
Dick Grayson of the Flying Graysons, adopted son of Bruce Wayne, famous socialite, and major douchebag. Like his guardian, he had quite the reputation as a player and a snob. You didn’t know much about Wayne or his kids, as they were more prominent in Gotham than your city, but what you did know was they had sway among high society.
If anyone in this club tonight could get you an in with Cobblepot, it was Dick Grayson.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌You murmured a quick “Excuse me,” to Gregory, abandoning your drink on the bar. You slide off your seat and pull your taut burgundy dress down your thighs a little. It wasn’t something you’d normally wear, in fact it had been borrowed from a friend. A simple piece of fabric that tied behind your neck, dipped low between your breasts and rolled up at your thighs with every step. You’d figured you had a better chance of being let through the door in something sexy. Now you hoped the getup would earn you admittance to Dick Grayson’s table.
As though he’d heard you think his name, his head raises from where he’d hung it in a laugh. His hair was draped over his forehead, plump lips still curled in half a smirk. It fell when he saw you approaching. His whole body stiffened, eyes blowing wide. Something dark flashed in his gaze as he looked you slowly over, his full brows dropping into a terrifying glare that truly made him look like what he was: one of the most powerful and connected men in Gotham.
What a rapid switch from lighthearted to territorial. You wondered if it was because he could sense the broke on you and didn’t want you anywhere near his five hundred dollar champagne. As quickly as the look had come, though, it dissipated, and he was turning his face to the side. You're left to wonder if you'd imagined the storm in his eyes. He buried his lips in the redhead’s hair and whispered something to her that sent her stumbling to her feet. She used Grayson’s hand as a crutch as he guided her out of the booth without standing from his seat, smiling encouragingly. He gestured to someone else, a bouncer by the looks of it. The man leaned down and Grayson muttered something to him, sliding him a folded bill of unknown value. The man nodded, pocketing the money and following the redhead, leading her to the door.
What the hell was that?
Maybe your next column would be about Bruce Wayne's son being a secret pimp.
You don’t have much time to ponder it as Dick Grayson is turning his gaze back on you and waving you to the recently vacated seat with a grin.
That was… too easy. You think. But you’re not one to give up such a perfect opportunity, so you step awkwardly over legs and bodies to get to the side of Gotham’s most infamous son. He’s laughing lowly at your stumbling when you get there, and his blue eyes seem clearer than before.
“Here,” he purrs, setting a hand on your waist to balance you, offering you his other hand to lower you into the cushions. You settle into the seat, back rigid.
You shoot him a quick smile, hoping to seem more grateful than embarrassed and annoyed.
Dick Grayson leans down to catch your eye as you adjust your dress around your thighs. He has an insufferable dimple on his cheek and a glint in his eyes that speaks of mischief and something deeper.
“What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?” He asks, and you’re certain you’re not going to be able to repress your mocking laugh. But as much as you want to say ‘seriously? that’s your line?’ You simply swallow the retort and curl your lips into a besotted little smile.
“I can’t enjoy a day off?” You ask, hand making your way to his wrist as he settles his arm around your waist, partially to play the game and partially to stop that hand incase he gets any ideas.
“Day off?” He says, tipping his chin up in a way that feels strangely familiar. He studies you with those icy eyes. “And what is it you do?” You swallow thickly, plastering on a nervous smile, scrambling for an answer.
“I’m a jeweler,” you say, dragging a finger over his forearm. He smile is horribly amused.
“Hm,” he hums thoughtfully. He takes his hand from your waist to pour you a glass of champagne from the bottle he’d been sipping directly out of. He hands you the flute with an appraising look at his wrist. “I have been needing a new watch.”
“What about you?” You ask abruptly, hoping to not get into a conversation you couldn't maintain. You take the glass from him and clicking the rim to the neck of the bottle when he offers. A single demure sip is all you allow yourself, both far too aware that it’s probably full of his spit and hoping to stay as sober as possible for your investigation. The drink is sweet and bubbling and warm on your tongue. “I hear you’re quite famous.”
Dick barks a laugh and takes a long drink from the bottle, his lips popping around the rim when he releases it. Your grimace is instinctual, happening before you can stop it.
“Forgive my manners,” he says, mouth falling open as he licks his teeth, entirely unrepentant. “My father is the famous one.” He tilts his head, raising his brows in amusement. “Both my fathers, actually. I’m more of a nepo baby sort of successful.” His tone is cocky but you can hear some true self-deprecation in the words.
Poor little rich boy.
If only you cared.
As much as you yearned for another sweet sip, you set your glass down, eager to pry into the opening he’s offered in bringing up his father.
“Bruce Wayne is quite the philanthropist. Donates to establishments like this quite readily.” You cringe internally over your attempt at speaking like the bourgeois. Dick seems to find some joy in the fumbling act.
“I don't believe I caught your name?” He asks.
“Malia.”
His eyes light up, and he lifts your knuckles to his smirking lips. He lingers just long enough for your breathing to get short before letting go. You understood why he had his reputation. Gorgeous and charming was a dangerous blend. His staggering arrogance was the downfall you latched onto to keep yourself focused.
“Yes, my father is so very generous. And what does it get him?” He says, waving a dismissive hand, a sour curl to his lip.
“Access to every crevice among the upper echelons of society? An audience with someone like The Penguin” you offer, leaning against his arm.
He frowns at you, amusement falling away to suspicion in an instant. You laugh off your own comment, leaning back into the cushions and shutting your eyes.
“Relax,” you lilt, “I’m kidding.” You cross your arms just enough to press some cleavage up out of your dress. A cheap tactic, an obvious one, but he was a vital resource. If Grayson guessed your game too early: it was over. You’d be out of luck and probably banned from the Iceberg for life. So if you had to lean into his playboy tendencies and make him believe you were in it for the sex and not the money? So be it.
It hadn’t taken long for you to convince yourself you were a real investigator, so why not go a step further and take on the persona of the femme fatale as well? You could use your feminine wiles. You’d seen it done in movies, anyway.
It seemed to work, because although you didn’t yet open your eyes, you felt the cushions shift and the heat of a body close to your side, the prickle of a hungry gaze crawling over your figure. He’d turned to face you, disregarding the bottle girl on his other hip. You peek one eye open to find him leaning his cheek into a fist, elbow propped on the back of the booth as he studies your profile. For as much as he’d been slugging from the bottle, he didn’t quite seem buzzed. His eyes were clear as water and bright as day, face a little pink but otherwise unbothered by the liquor.
“You really are pretty,” he says softly, reaching up to take a strand of hair between his fingers.
“Shame you’ve been lying your ass off since you sat down.”
Your whole body stiffens, and you try at a surprised laugh. It comes out too high, pitchy, and Dick Grayson is sitting there, relaxed posture all but pressed against your side with a single perfect brow lifted.
“Wh-what are you talking about?” you sputter with a plastered-on smile of pure terror.
He lifts a hand to drag a long finger across your exposed collarbone, not quite a violation but it makes you shiver for a reason you will not give a name.
“I’ve been doing this a long time, sweetheart,” he lilts, leaning close to press his nose above your ear. You hear him inhale the smell of your hair softly, breathing you in, inundating your senses with his soft touch and his breath on your scalp. Then his lips are moving against your ear. “I can smell a reporter a mile away." His nose bumps your temple. "Get your gossip somewhere else.”
He leans back, pulling his hand away and admiring the blush covering you from neck to ears.
You scramble for another lie, a way to salvage this humiliating blunder, lips working to find words that your tongue won’t lift to form. He’d known since you approached. Dick Grayson had spent the last five minutes toying with you, watching you throw yourself at him and enjoying every second of knowing he would deny you what you wanted. Even though he’d missed the mark on what exactly that was.
Your mouth is opening and closing dumbly.
“Don’t bother,” he says, wrapping his arm about around the giggling bottle girl in the sparkly dress.
“But if you ever want to dance, off the record, you know where to find me.” He offers with a wink, opening a hand to the rest of the lounge.
Your in with The Penguin has been pulled away from under you. In a moment of hot passion that you’re not exactly proud of, you grab the lapels of his blazer and tug him to face you. He goes willingly, his body going limp as you hold him there. He’s smiling dazedly, eyes half shut as he watches your mouth. Perhaps the champagne was finally hitting him.
You’re rambling before you can stop yourself. “Listen. I don’t work on a gossip column, I investigate crime, and there’s a big one happening in Bludhaven and I need to talk to The Penguin, and I need your help to do it.”
His sapphire eyes dance over your face, down your chest, over your hips as his loose, smug smile settles. He leans close enough for his minty champagne breath to fan your mouth.
“That’s not my problem.” He whispers. "And if you're asking for my help? You're probably not worth your salt anyway. Pick a new career."
Hurt pangs in your chest, and you cannot keep it off your face. For just a second, his smile falters, then his hand is in the air waving over the same bouncer he’d had escort the red haired woman out.
“Wait-" you exclaim as the man pries your hands from Grayson’s jacket. He loops an arm around your waist and hoists you off the ground.
“Hold on! Just-! get your hands off me! Grayson please just listen!” You probably look like a crazy stalker kicking and screaming, but you don’t have the depth of thought to care. You’re tunnel-visioned on outrunning Nightwing to the solve. You aren’t even sure when exactly it became your goal to figure out the culprit before he did, but it was the only thought in your mind as you’re carried unceremoniously to the door.
You twist in the bouncer’s arms to get a look back at Dick Grayson. You expect to find him laughing with a new girl on his arm, drinking from the neck of a fresh bottle, maybe tipping it against her lips.
Instead, you see him leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes dark under a curtain of black waves. His lips are pressed into a thin line, jaw taut and working, ignoring the caresses of the bottle girl and the loud laughter of a man who’d taken the seat next to him. Through a thickening cloud of smoke pierced only by streaks of brightly colored lights, you see his steady blue glare watching you until you’re all the way out the door.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
The bouncer sets you on your feet at the bottom of the stairs to the lounge, muttering an apology when his hand brushes your hip. He lingers long enough to call you a cab and hand the driver a wad of cash, but doesn’t stay to watch you get in.
So, naturally, you don’t.
You tell the cabbie to keep the money and wander curiously around the side of the massive lounge, circling into the alleyway full of people giving into their less socially acceptable vices. Smoke that smells like burning plastic and sugar floats through the air along with the sucking sounds and vulgar moaning of a kiss that wouldn’t stay a kiss for long. You cover your mouth and try to scout the side entrance.
You can't help the feeling of injury from having not only been embarrassed, but also told off in the same way that always told you nobody believed in your skill.
“Malia,” a gruff voice says. It takes you a moment to realize he is talking to you. His smell had been masked by the sex and sickly-sweet smoke of the alley, but surely enough, when you turned, it was Gregory who towered over you with a lopsided smile.
“I saw you get booted. Grayson does that a lot, doesn’t like drunk girls hanging around him.”
You swallow the nerves of being cornered by this massive man in an alleyway and offer him your best impression of a drunken smile, swaying a little.
“So you’re here often, then?”
He laughs gruffly.
“Well it is my job,” he raises his brows.
“Oh, right! We never did get to finish our conversation earlier.” You loop an arm through his. “Maybe you take me back inside and we could chat about it?”
He leans closer, his stench enveloping you in a single motion. You have to hold your breath to keep from gagging.
He begins leading you towards what looks like a back entrance. Later, you might be able to admit to yourself that this was the moment you went in over your head, that it was arrogance and your injured pride that led you through that door. For now, though, you had to keep focused.
“So,” you lead as the blessed rush of air conditioning washes away the stench of Gregory’s body for a moment. “You work for The Penguin? That’s… sexy?” The words come out unbalanced and awkward. You wince. The femme fatale thing is harder than the movies made it look. But Gregory either doesn’t notice or doesn’t mind. Figures that he must not get many women willing to hang around him for so long.
“Eh, I don’t do much,” he says, strangely sheepish, scratching the side of his jaw.
“Certainly you do something,” you pry, leaning into his arm. He leads you through a long hall, lit by band lights along the ceiling. It must be a service entrance or something, a few swinging doors break off to each side. He guides you out another door and up a set of stairs, and you start to worry about where he’s taking you.
“I mostly bounce at the clubs, sometimes I’ll do runs for him, all the low level shit.”
“Really?” you ask, brain split between listening and keeping track of every turn and doorway. At the end of the staircase, he leads you out onto a massive rooftop terrace. There’s an unlit fireplace and a few fancy chairs set around. Strings of lanterns line the terrace and it looks more like a romantic hotel rooftop than one with club music blaring loud enough to vibrate the concrete and gravel beneath you. Gregory leads you forwards a loveseat tucked among the chairs. You swallow.
“Guy like you? Certainly you do something… exciting.” You remain standing a couple steps away as he settles into the cushions. If you could only lure him into admitting something illegal you could pry a little more about the burglary of the steel mill. Certainly you hadn’t picked the one useless bruiser who didn’t know anything?
“Hmmm sometimes, I guess.” he says, grinning as he pulls you down, settling himself far too close. You feel sorry for every other woman he’s ever tried to seduce. The man was not only dumb as a jellyfish and boring in addition, but to top it off smelled like a half-rotted carcass. The side of his leg is pressed against yours, and with absolutely no pretense he lays a heavy palm on your thigh. You do your best to mold your gasp into a giggle, but it’s hard not to stiffen up.
You were definitely, definitely in over your head.
“Tell me a story!” You say - too quickly, your hands reaching down to scoop his up off your leg. You press your knees tightly together and turn to face him, palm cradled between your fingers
“I love hearing about what guys like you get up to. Like… a few months ago! I heard about this big…” you gesture with your hands like you hadn’t read every report on it a thousand times. “... Hit on a steel mill!”
His laugh rumbles through you and your stomach churns. You need to plot your exit route, but he’s taken you to a rooftop, and he must be a hundred pounds heavier than you.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Do not panic. You’re still in control here.
“I guess I did hear about that. It was a big thing between the boss and Sionis, stole a bunch of shit from one of boss’s businesses then turned around and sold it.” As Gregory spoke, his free hand found the side of your leg, fingers brushing against the hem of your dress. You were going to vomit.
“Sold it?” You echo, voice taut, pressing a hand to his chest and trying to lean away. He must think this whole thing has you supremely turned on, because he leans to whisper against your jaw.
“To some up and comers in Bludhaven.”
“Who?”
His stench was suffocating now as he nosed at your pulse. Your fingernails dug into your palms.
“I don’t know. They met up in Old Gotham, it was all quiet, boss is still trying to investigate.”
“Maybe one of your coworkers knows something about it?” you try, both for the sake of the investigation and in the hopes that it will get this fucker off of you if you start talking about his more accomplished associates. "You could introduce me to one of them?"
“You think so?” A taunting voice calls from above.
Both you and Gregory snap your heads up to find none other than Nightwing looming over you, silhouetted by the moonlight as he crouched on the ledge of the roof above you. You’re torn between an all-consuming gratitude and anger at his smug tone.
Gregory leapt from his seat, reaching for the walkie talkie at his belt. Nightwing didn’t seem too worried about it, his focus entirely on you.
“We had a deal.” He said disapprovingly, hopping down in a smooth flip to stride toward you with that familiar leisurely gait.
“How did you even know I was here?” You ask him as Gregory looks wildly between the two of you.
“You know him?” He shouts. Then to Nightwing, voice pitchy and terrified, “Is Batman here?” Then to you again. “You bitch. you set me up!”
“No!” You scream as he lunges for you. You roll off the couch and onto the ground, rooftop gravel embedding in your palms and the backs of your thighs. Nightwing catches him by the collar of his shirt, hauling him backwards.
“Hands off the lady,” he drones, tone brimming on boredom. He tosses Gregory to the ground, crossing to stand over where you’d tumbled to the rooftop floor.
“You know, you’re becoming a serious pain in my ass.” He scolds. Gregory scrambles to his feet as two more bouncers funnel out the door. Nightwing doesn’t even draw his weapons, tossing an elbow at the first without turning.
“Likewise,” you say, pushing up to your elbows. Gregory lunges over you and you slam your knee into his sternum. He continues towards you, breathless. You scramble backwards.
“Hello?” You shriek, voice breaking. Nightwing grunts.
“Busy!” he answers, cracking two skulls together before returning to drag Gregory back by his ankle. He’s flailing, scrambling, grabbing for you up until the moment he receives an elbow to the back of his head.
Nightwing offered a hand which you swatted away. He scoffed and planted his hands on his hips.
“You’re welcome!”
“I had it.” You snap.
You push inelegantly to your feet, dusting gravel off your thighs and elbows. By the time you’re fully upright, Nightwing is already squatted down and rifling through one of the bouncer’s pockets.
“Don’t get cocky,” he says, voice low and rumbling. He’s looking for something particular in the man’s pockets, but doesn’t seem to find it. He tosses the man’s wallet over the roof’s ledge, disinterested.
“I’m not always going to be here to save you from your own bullshit plans.” He stands, crossing to meet your eyes. “Did I, or did I not say you were an informant?”
“I was gathering intel! I can't exactly inform without information!” You hiss, gesturing wildly.
“And what were you planning to do when that asshole put his hand up your dress?” He asks through his teeth, pointing to Gregory's unconscious form.
“I- I was figuring that part out!”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, turning his back to you and looking to the sky in a silent prayer for patience.
“This is never going to stop, is it?” He huffs a dry, raspy laugh. “No matter what I say?”
Almost without pause you answer.
“Correct.”
He laughs again, clapping his hands together, spinning in a full 360. he brings his hands to his face and takes a deep breath. He stares at you for a long while, head tilting sideways while he takes in the tiny dress clinging to you, the mess of your hair. You swear his neck flushes a little, but it’s too dark to tell for sure.
“Fine. Fine! You’re an adult, right?” He starts pacing. “Your decisions aren’t my responsibility, it can’t always be on me!.”
“Correct again,” you say, crossing your arms. Though this sudden display of radical acceptance was a little concerning. Maybe he was manic? Or, you watch as he takes a shaky step, maybe…
“Are you drunk?”
“No!” He snaps almost as soon as you ask. He turns away, red now definitely crawling up the back of his neck.
“I’m… lightly buzzed.”
You throw your hands up, though his back is still turned.
“You came all the way to Gotham to get drunk in uniform?”
“I came to Gotham to look into Sionis’s buyer!” He answers, throwing a hand up behind him, making for the iron guardrail around the terrace. “I told you I had connections and I came to meet them.” He spun on you, pointing, speaking through teeth clenched so hard you were worried they might break. “Except I have your ass to babysit, which means I can never get anything done!”
“My ass is none of your concern.” You cross your arms indignantly, well aware that the comment was unnecessary and childish.
Nightwing makes a low sound and you can’t tell if it’s agreement or if he’s just choked on his own spit.
He swallows, leaning his elbows back against the railing. For a long time he just stares. You can’t see his eyes behind the white of his mask, but almost instinctively you can feel a trail of heat moving from your ankles to your hips to your collar. You tugged the top of the dress up, then the bottom down, suddenly feeling all too exposed, though in an entirely different way than you had under Gregory’s gaze. Nightwing had only ever seen you in hoodies and work clothes, you supposed it was unfair to expect him not to at least appreciate the dress. A part of you wanted him to appreciate it, but that part of you was buried under a mountain of reasons he was annoying.
He juts his chin towards you.
“You look good.” He says softly, turning his face away.
“Too good to be flirting with every douchebag you think can give you a leg up on me.”
“It was one douchebag.”
He raises his brows.
“Two,” you admit. “But you can rest assured that Dick Grayson wanted nothing to do with me.” You cross your arms against the cold, embarrassed to recall the way you’d fawned on him only to be turned away.
Nightwing tilts his head toward the skyline.
“I wouldn’t be so certain.”
You toss him a look and he drags a hand down his obscured face, nodding with a shaky laugh. He pushes off the railing and offers you a hand. “We should probably get out of here before sleeping beauty and his dwarves come to,” he whispers, gesturing to the bodies.
You nod, starting for the door. “I remember the way.”
“Ho-oh no.” Nightwing lilts, pressing a hand to the frame above your head. Against your better judgement you turn to face him. “No, I’m taking you to the cab personally, this time.”
His breath hitches and he pulls away. You check the top of your dress, but the girls seemed secure, and nothing else seemed off.
‘This time.’
What was that supposed to-?
Your knees were being scooped out from under you, and with a click and a whirring sound, you were in the air.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
A/N
Thank you guys for reading I hope you liked the longish update!
Any follows, likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated!!
p.s. sorry to anyone named malia it was the first name that came to mind for an alias hehe
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ Dick Grayson x Reader . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
Part One here
Part Two here
✧ Summary
You’re a good journalist. Intern. Whatever. But you’ve yet to make your mark. When a series of mysterious crimes that could change the landscape of investigative journalism in Blüdhaven crosses your desk, however… inadvertently, you decide this is your sign to act.
Nightwing, the figure at the center of the mystery, isn’t so sure.
⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ Word Count // 2331. ݁₊ ⊹
Your third encounter with Nightwing was notably less… serendipitous. You’d worked nearly thirteen hours; the morning taking coffee orders, printing copies, and proof reading. Then, in the afternoon when everyone else had started to pack up and go, you’d stayed behind to type up an experimental report on your findings in what you called “The Nightwing Anomalies,” - better title pending.
Most of the afternoon was spent agonizing over Nightwing’s whereabouts during the bombing. The general populus had yet to recognize the pattern in his involvement, still focused on the police, but it was only a matter of time before a reporter with more sway got their hands on the story.
You’d combed all the gossip pages recent posts, and spent most of your lunch break going door to door on campus and asking if anyone had seen anything before the medical center had exploded. The search was mostly fruitless, but it led you to the strange feeling that Nightwing knew something you didn’t. Of course he did. He was the hero, after all. If he hadn’t been there for the explosion, he must have been chasing another lead. Whether or not it was a dead end, you hadn’t the faintest clue.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
You clicked the door to your apartment shut behind you and turned the lock, kicking off your shoes and setting your purse and keys on the entry table. You couldn’t wait to stuff your face with whatever was left in the fridge and crash, but the promise of relaxation vanished two steps past the door.
In the darkness, you could see the blurry shape of a person standing in your living room, facing your bookshelf with a hand on their like they could see in the dark. Your heart sank, stomach leaping up your esophagus. Before you had a chance to scream or truly settle into panic, a voice that was becoming annoyingly familiar called out.
“You’re home late.”
A lamp flicked on and there in the wash of yellow light stood Nightwing with that stupid giddy grin on his face, pleased that he had startled you. Your shoulders didn’t relax. Vigilantes were still criminals. You had no idea why he was here.
“How’d you get in?” You ask quietly, reaching for another light switch. You felt mildly more comforted with the whole place lit.
“I know you don’t think you need to lock your windows on the sixth floor, but it’s always better safe than sorry.”
You crossed your arms, glaring at the condescending rasp in his voice.
“I do lock my windows.”
Grin turning sheepish, Nightwing stepped away from the bookshelf and looked around the place fully lit, spinning in a circle. You lift your eyes to the ceiling to keep from looking him over.
“Nice place,” He lilted. Liar. Your apartment was horrible, falling apart at the seams, the only nice part of it were the couple pieces of real wood furniture you’d scavenged from estate sales and flea markets. And the cinnamon wax burner on your counter, so it at the very least wouldn’t stink. Something in you felt embarrassed by it. Although it was hard to find a place much nicer in Blüdhaven , the amount of space he took up under the low ceilings made you feel like he could see every crack in the paint and speck of dust. Every sign that you were in over your head.
Before you could ask why he was there he stepped in front of you. Too close, you’d say, but you didn’t back up. Instead you studied what you could see of his face. His hair was flat and oily, like he hadn’t washed it recently, his lips, which you were loathe to stare at for too long, were cracked and pale.
“I looked for your work in the ‘Blüdhaven Daily’ archives.” He says, your eyes snapping back to his as he smiles subtly at your examining. “No trace.”
You scoff. So that’s why he was here. He was counter investigating you. You shuck off your coat and toss it on the couch, heading for the kitchen.
“I’m a staff writer.” You mumble.
“What was that?” He calls, though you’re sure he heard you. He’s padding after you to the counter, leaning over it across from where you stop to fill the kettle.
“I’m a staff writer.” you announce louder, making a face. “My name doesn’t get put to my work.” You suspected he already knew that.
“Tragic,” he pouts with a click of his tongue. You flick sink water at him. He reels back. Its almost eerie to have him here like this, in your beat down apartment, sitting on your barstool and laughing. Motive unknown.
“It’s part of the career path, everyone does it at some point.”
“And what is the point?” He asks, going back to flop over on your couch, stretching out with a groan and posing like a model. You draw your eyes away before he catches you eyeing the ridges of his abdomen in the fitted suit. He sniffs and tucks an arm under his head, flexing just a little, though he successfully convinces himself he isn’t.
“You’ll become a full time crime reporter and one day you’ll figure something out that gets you killed. Is that your career goal?”
There is a quiet voice in your head saying that if he’s so adamant about your staying off the case, it must mean he thinks you’re smart enough to find something big.
You’re not sure why, but before you even think about it you’re setting out two mugs and putting tea bags in them. Like he was a guest rather than an intruder.
After a moment of contemplation, you decided you couldn’t keep having the same conversation with him.
“What about you?” You counter. It wasn’t like your parents and friends hadn’t traced the same line of questioning a hundred times, the mention of death by assassin had lost its sting. Besides, you were too tired to play his game tonight. You wanted answers, and if you couldn’t get them now, how could you ever expect to find the big ones?
“You do exactly what I do, you just fight the crime, too. All I’m trying to do is dispense justice in the world of knowledge. People deserve information, but not everyone has the resources to find it. Crime journals make awareness accessible to them, especially when the police are keeping things quiet for sketchy reasons. For some people, that makes them feel just as safe as Nightwing does.”
You felt a little silly saying it to the muscled, badass vigilante lounging on your sectional, but it was true enough. He’d had enough fun teasing you, it was time to assert yourself.
But instead of hearing out your point, he just laughs dryly.
“Or they’ll go to seek it out and get themselves killed just like you’re going to.” He sits up, looking at you through a curtain of dark hair, elbows on his spread knees.
He gives you whiplash sometimes, he moves so easily from a teasing tone to a sharp, businesslike one.
You don’t answer. He was grandstanding. Of course you didn’t really want to die for your work, but that did not mean that it wasn’t important to you, and it did not make it unimportant to the world.
Why does he care so much what I do?
“I don’t want to talk about this.” You say, pushing a cup of tea across the counter. He slinks up from the couch like a dancer and takes the mug. “Tell me why you came.”
“Hospitable, aren’t you?”
“Growing hostile by the second, so tread lightly. You’re a lot less charming than people say you are.”
A smirk curls one side of his chapped lips.
“People?” he leans his elbows on the counter, far too close for your liking. You lean back before he can see your face heat up.
“Coworkers.” He curls his hand around the mug slowly. “Acquaintances who would be just tickled to know you’d been in my apartment.” You add bleakly.
He laughs again, tipping his head back to look you over.
“Are you going to tell me about it?”
Avoidant, he sips the tea you gave him and winces. You’d neglected to sweeten it.
He doesn’t insult you by asking what you mean.
“I missed it.” He answers plainly, any amusement falling from his masked face. He hangs his head.
“Bodies, this time.” Nightwing looks ready to turn green.
“Mangled, crushed. I don’t-“ he shakes his head, setting down the mug of tea a bit harder than necessary.
“I don’t understand what i’m missing.” Gloved fingers pinch at his nose, then he scrubs over his face.
Even behind the mask, you could see the agony scribbled on his face, hear it in his voice. You didn’t do him the disservice of asking where he’d been that night, even though that was the journalistic thing to do.
“I knew you were looking into it so I thought maybe -” he shook his head, and suddenly, jarringly, it was your dearest wish that you could see his eyes. He rubs the back of his neck.
“I could help.” The words are soft, placating, you hope. He only grimaces.
“Don’t.” Nightwing warns. He turns away, abandoning his tea to examine a framed picture of you and some friends on a night out. He picks it up and his lips twitch.
“I don’t know. I shouldn’t have come.”
Understanding came over you. He clearly felt an immense guilt for all of his recent failings, for being unable to connect the strings of this case. He came looking for solidarity, even if he couldn’t really ask for it outright.
“I have resources you don’t.” You offer, unsure of how else to comfort the six foot vigilante in your living room. Results helped. Right?
“I seriously doubt that.” He says, setting down the photo.
A cocky mirth in your tone, you ask, “You have a contact at the city morgue?”
His nose wrinkles.
“That’s so creepy. How?"
A proud grin makes its way to your face.
“You’d be surprised how many majors require criminal justice courses.”
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
The next day at work, you are revitalized. Even though you’d stayed up halfway into the night comparing notes with a vigilante, you felt more ready to face the day than you had in months. As it turned out, Nightwing had much more information than you did. Most of which he was naturally disinclined to share.
But what you had was your contact at the morgue, a medical examiner named Lexi. She’d informed you the afternoon after the bombing that many of the bodies had been found with traces of lead shrapnel. A material usually only accessible and workable by military or major metalworks corporations and organized crime. It wasn’t much of a hint, but it did tell you - and Nightwing - that whoever you were up against had money and resources and connections.
That fact hadn’t exactly been a confidence booster for the tired vigilante - but oh well. Facts were facts and you had a lead. A steelworks factory on the south side of Gotham had been robbed six months ago. The crime had been putatively attributed to the Black Mask’s gang, but no arrests or convictions had ever taken place. Not uncommon with organized crime in Gotham, especially on that scale.
The only issue was that Sionis didn’t have any sort of stake or foothold in Blüdhaven , and there was no reason for them to want one, which meant they hadn’t been the ones to blow up the med center. But whoever had done it, had bought their metals from Sionis.
Nightwing was not pleased by your offer to ask around to see if any of your coworkers had a connection to Sionis’ guys. His lips had curved into a frown, highlighting the deep hollows of his cheeks.
“You have connections in the morgue, I have connections in Gotham. You’re an informant, nothing more. Are we clear?”
You gave him a mocking salute and a “whatever you say, sir.” He’d frowned, but accepted your reluctant obedience.
You spent the next morning grilling your coworkers for anything they knew about Roman Sionis and any contacts they had with information on his dealings. Most of them got itchy at the mention of the name and told you to leave them to their work. Your last ditch effort, a senior reporter and crime analyst named Elise, yielded more results, even if they came at a cost.
Her mouth tightened at the corners when you asked her for a contact in the Black Mask Mafia.
“What are you getting yourself into, (name)?” She asked. Her chair groaned as she leaned back against it. You press your palms together.
“It’s… covert. For now. But it’s important, and I promise that if this all comes to anything you’ll be the first to know!”
With a slow, steadying breath, Elise shook her head and reached for a paper. She checked around before scribbling an address on a paper and passing it to you.
A gleeful laugh broke from you and you bounced on your toes. Paper held tight against your chest you thanked her profusely. She waved you off.
“Don’t get too excited, kid. It’s a long shot, haven’t talked to the guy in months.”
With a quick nod, you spin around to return to your desk.
“Don’t get yourself killed.” Elise called jokingly.
Why could people not stop saying that to you?
The address was in downtown Gotham. When you plugged it into google maps on your work computer the ground-level pictures made the area look entirely abandoned and undeveloped. More likely a car hadn’t been sent out in years to take new ones. Whatever the case, you were one step closer to an answer. Somehow, for the first time in your career, things were shaping up for you.
Now all you had to do was get there before Nightwing.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
End A/N
I hope you guys enjoyed! Any likes/comments/reblogs are appreciated!
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ Dick Grayson x Reader . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
Part One here
✧ Summary
You’re a good journalist. Intern. Whatever. But you’ve yet to make your mark. When a series of mysterious crimes that could change the landscape of investigative journalism in Blüdhaven crosses your desk, however… inadvertently, you decide this is your sign to act.
Nightwing, the figure at the center of the mystery, isn’t so sure.
A/N - I promise that it will start to feel like an X Character fic soon I'm a plot hooligan I can't make anything easy for myself.
“You’re in trouble.”
When you’d said it, Dick was sure that your impromptu kiss with the sidewalk had rattled your brain. Then you’d stepped carefully over your unconscious attacker and scooped a slightly damp folder from the pavement.
He urged you to walk while you talked, wanting to ensure you really weren’t concussed. Somewhat to his dismay, your determined look didn’t waver as you flipped through the pictures and reports, explaining how he’d been drawn away from clandestine swipes, kept quiet and shadowy while he dealt with the loud, flashy spectacles.
“It’s like someone knows you’ll go wherever the most eyes are,” you said, casting him a sideways look.
“Or wherever the most potential victims are.” He answers with an offended little huff.
You wave a hand like there was no difference.
“The gangs know you have intel on them, that’s what makes them fear you. But if some unseen player knows where you’re getting your info, they could be feeding you shoddy tips to throw you off the scent. And Blüdhaven PD, for good measure.”
You mention the police like an afterthought. Everyone knew cops around here weren’t good for much.
It discomfited Dick to hear you speak so blithely about it all. Of course he knew about the arms deal, and the cadavers, and God, of course he knew about those six missing people. He knew every one of their names, their faces, the minute and exact latitude and longitude where they had last been seen. their pictures flashed behind his eyes every time he tried to go to sleep.
He was spread thin in Blüdhaven, he already knew he couldn’t be everywhere at once. The last thing he needed was some nosy, over-eager reporter getting herself in over her head.
“Listen,” he says, “I’m flattered, really, that you care so deeply about my work.”
He chooses to ignore the sour face you make at that. “But this is really serious stuff. Dangerous. It’s not for civilians to be getting involved in.”
“You’re a civilian.”
“I’m Nightwing.” He says, chest puffing up.
“Are you a cop?”
“No.”
“Are you military?”
“No.”
“You’re a civilian.”
“I’m a superhero!”
“Vigilante.”
Dick scoffed.
“Just listen, sweetheart. I’m telling you it’s time to back off. This isn’t going to get you anywhere good.” He pulls the folder from your hand, a little guilt ridden at the way you try to grab for it.
You ground your jaw and glared like you wanted to make his nose bleed, too. If he hadn’t been so tired he might have been amused by it. You really were quite pretty, and there was usually nothing Dick Grayson was better at than making pretty girls mad at him.
You stopped outside a building and it took him a second to snap out of his staring and realize it was your apartment.
“While you take care of that,” he pouts, tapping your bloody chin with one gloved finger. You jerk your head away.
“I’ll take care of this.” He finishes, lifting the folder with your files in it. They were all public access, so you didn’t fight him for them. But damn. If there hadn’t been a fire under you to get to the bottom of this before, there sure as hell was now.
He stares with an expectant grin, like he's waiting for you to thank him. Maybe you would've, if he hadn't just treated you like an overeager child.
“Goodbye, Nightwing.” You say without any agreement that you’ll give up. He seems satisfied anyway. After a few stomped feet up the steps, you realize one more thing you’d forgotten to mention.
“And it’s creepy to call women -! sweet… heart.” You turn back, but only the dark sidewalk and the flickering streetlamps were there to hear.
“Asshole.”
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
Dick laid out the printed reports on his desk at home, sifted through them. It wasn’t any new information. You didn’t know anything he didn’t, which meant you’d be at as much of a dead ends as he was.
He felt some amount of pity for you, you’d looked close to heartbroken when he had snatched the folder out of your hand. But outweighing his pity was his own guilt and exhaustion. He really could not afford another potential casualty in this mess.
Over the next week he largely forgot that your meeting had even happened. A certain number of sleepless nights tended to wipe the mind clean of menial troubles, and only the big ones seemed to feel important. Blüdhaven was dick’s project. His home. He would bring her to heel, he just needed to figure out who was trying to drag her back into her old bad habits , and using him to do it.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
The first two times it had happened, the fire and the drug lab, Dick had been the one to anonymously alert Blüdhaven’s finest to clean up the aftermath of his raids. The third time he’d been smarter.
An interrogation with a gang lieutenant had yielded intel that the garage would be the meeting place of three very important leaders in Blüdhaven’s underground. The man had protected the secret so viciously Dick had to lean him over the ledge of a clock tower by the tearing collar of his shirt before he let up. Dick had trailed the guy back to a safe house that looked something like a failed halfway home reclaimed by the residents.
Every corner of the place looked chewed by rats, the windows were broken in and jagged glass teeth still guarded the frames. The front door, closed, left a two inch gap from the capping sill so it could never fully seal. It had been easy to perch on the sketchy thin metal terrace on the second floor as the lieutenant returned to his boss, lying his ass of about his run in with Nightwing.
It had been assurance enough for Dick to spend half his night staking out the street the garage was on.
The bust up itself had been easy enough. Stupid one liners and wingdings bouncing off the walls. Not much intel had come of it, but three of Blüdhaven’s fastest rising low level gangs would be without their upper levels of leadership for a while.
He’d left when he heard sirens.
An hour later he made his way to patrol the docks, so much ground to cover for one man in a single night.
What he’d found there was worse than the garage, a simple meeting to make deals that likely would’ve caused problems, but none he couldn’t handle.
What he found was half of Blüdhaven’s chapter of Tony Zucco’s gang shouting at one another and trading blame. It had taken dick a little while to catch up to what they were arguing about. Stacks on stacks of empty palettes, tipped over crates spilling padding and little else onto the wet ground. Guns. Bombs. Ammunition. Millions of dollars worth, vanished.
The next night Dick trailed the lieutenant who had spilled about the garage meetup to a dark alleyway. Dick’s usual upbeat demeanor was gone, he couldn’t even perform at it he was so angry at having been played. The man was likely waiting for someone else to arrive for a deal, so he would make this quick. Nightwing landed behind the man on light feet, gripping the back of his neck and cracking his head against the wall. He cried out and reached for the split open bridge of his nose, but Dick trapped his wrist, pushing his face back into the bricks.
“Who were you lying for, huh? Don’t think I didn’t notice your absence from the little meetup you tipped me off about.” He pressed harder and the man whimpered.
“What did they offer you? Leadership? That you’d take over Herrera's position?”
The man cried out.
“Let off man,” he sobbed. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know!”
Dick couldn’t be everywhere at once. He knew that. But a coincidence like this didn’t happen by chance. Especially not three times in a row, and he was growing increasingly frustrated by the failures.
“Who was it!” he growled, pulling the man off the wall and catapulting him into the side of a dumpster.
In the end, for all the beating he took, the man didn’t tell him anything. Dick hung him by his ankles over the door of the police station. Were they involved? Had they been paid off to avoid the real scene? Dick had never felt scrambled like this before. Blüdhaven was his project, involving the Titans or Batman would be a last resort.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
The next time Nightwing saw you, he was significantly less amused by your theories. You’d been hard at work over the last few weeks, it seemed. Somehow, although Dicks intel came from interrogations and insider leaks, a reporter from the north side of Blüdhaven had managed to track down the same abandoned warehouse that Dick suspected would be the stage for the next distraction a night later.
You weren’t necessarily surprised when he tapped down behind you, but it was never pleasant to be snuck up on.
You spun around, heart pounding against your sternum.
“I thought reporters were supposed to show up after the fact?”
You smiled proudly at him, a little breathless. Your nose was pink from the cold, the bruising on your chin was mostly gone but a small scar had formed there. God, you were pretty.
He let the thought float by like a leaf on a stream. A distraction.
“Unambitious ones, maybe. I’m determined”
Nightwing laughed mirthlessly, brushing by you.
“That and a quarter will buy you a gumball.” He says, scanning the building, the whites of his mask squinting. “And probably a bullet in the head.”
“How do you see through that thing?” You ask, striding towards the edge of the building with a small digital camera, snapping pictures of the main entrance, the lock on the chain holding the handles. You ignore his warning. You knew very well the risks of your choice career.
“Trade secret.” he rasps, turning to eye you. He seems almost intrigued by your presence, watching as you lean down to take pictures, eyes trailing every move.
“Listen,” he says after a while of letting you case the entrance, trying to rattle the chain and pacing halfway around the perimeter.
“I know you’re trying to get a good story, but you can’t just show up to crime scenes like this.”
“It’s not a crime scene.”
“Yet.” Which was precisely what bothered him. You’d been smart enough to put together where the next distraction was going to happen. What if it had been tonight? What if next time you went digging, you found the other place and he didn’t? What if you showed up night-of and he wasn’t there? What if you were just lining up to be one more person dead on his watch?
You could see his jaw working as he watched you, the only hint of emotion on his face. It was unnerving not to see his eyes but know still that he was studying you.
“Alright.” He says after a while, looping a hand around your elbow.
“As cute as this little display has been, it’s time for you to go home.”
It’s irksome as it ever is when your coworkers treat you like an unwanted child. Journalism was an extremely competitive field, you had to force your way in to the good stories, and if you didn’t, someone else did.
You were no fan of ridicule or condescension. Cute wasn’t exactly a word a grown woman appreciated being used to describe her work, and you felt distinctly that this couldn’t be the man your coworkers spent so much time gushing over. He was far more… high and mighty than they had let on.
You level a glare at him, reaching into your pocket. “Fine. I’ll go. On one condition.”
His eyes follow the motion all the way until you pull out a small rectangular recorder. He scoffs.
“Seriously?”
“Nightwing. Would you care to comment on the recent string of strange mishaps coinciding with your ill-timed raids?”
He looks up to the sky, then at the ground. Tonguing his cheek, taking a long moment to contemplate. He leans towards the recorder and you lift it. He takes a deep breath.
“No.”
He plucks the device from your hand and presses the side button. There’s a click as the recording ends and he tucks it back into your pocket. Despite yourself and how much you were starting to dislike him, you had to make a conscious effort to continue breathing with Nightwing so close, fingers brushing your side through the inside of your pocket. You had a very clear view of the curve of his cheekbones and that dimple your coworkers swooned over.
“I’m being serious." He said lowly, breath fanning your face. “You’re putting yourself in danger here, it’s not worth the byline.”
“That isn’t your decision to make,” you answer. “This would make my career. I’m onto something, I know I am. I could help you! I have the investigative skills. I’ve just never been given the chance to prove it.”
“This isn’t about your vindication.” Nightwing says coolly, turning and striding towards the shadows. “Go home.”
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
Two nights later, the warehouse you’d been casing housed a rave packed to the gills with drug dealers, fight-ring brawlers, arms dealers, and human traffickers.
Nightwing was nowhere to be found.
The next morning came the headlines.
"EXPLOSION IN BLUDHAVEN UNIVERSITY’S MEDICAL CENTER LEAVES POLICE PERPLEXED"
"RESCUE EFFORTS STILL UNDERWAY AT BLUDHAVEN U. CASUALTY COUNT UNKNOWN"
The first three nights had been thefts, clandestine, quiet, without ripples into the daily life of regular citizens. But this? This was a blatant attack, it had nothing to do with acquisitions or antagonizing a rival gang. This was a strike on the very foundation of the city. And if Nightwing wasn't at the distraction or the real attack last night. . .
Where was he?
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
End A/N
Thank you guys for reading I hope you liked it! If you did, any Likes/Comments/Reblogs are appreciated :3
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ Dick Grayson x Reader . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
✧ Summary
You’re a good journalist. Intern. Whatever. But you’ve yet to make your mark. When a series of mysterious crimes that could change the landscape of investigative journalism in Blüdhaven crosses your desk, however… inadvertently, you decide this is your sign to act.
Nightwing, the figure at the center of the mystery, isn’t so sure.
ׂ╰┈➤ CW // Canon Typical Violence, Fem! Reader
⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ Word Count // 2708 . ݁₊ ⊹
You hadn’t planned to be out that first night. It was an ephemeral stroke of genius that had led to your chance encounter with the former Boy Wonder. Leaving home so late in the day was a stupid decision, really, considering the nature of Blüdhaven’s streets after dark. But when was your city ever truly safe? You could forgive her some roughness because she always paid you back in kind. You loved her even with her flaws - for her flaws - they gave you work to do. This piece… this was the one. It was sure to impress your editor and make the column. It would be your moment to prove yourself. Nothing like your last “epiphany.” Nor the one before… But you had to get to it before someone else recognized the connection.
You’d been combing through files on your laptop after work. Files that you -technically- weren’t supposed to have downloaded because they -technically- belonged to your boss and came from a very important, very anonymous source. In them you’d found an overlap in times. Blüdhaven PD’s most recent overhaul of a garage of stolen vehicles had taken place at the same time that what the source alleged to be a massive weapons shipment for the Zuccos had disappeared from the docks. You’d found the same sort of overlap a month ago in Blüdhaven PD’s public records. It hadn’t meant much to you at the time, but it came readily to mind after reading the new report. The cops had busted up a massive drug lab on an anonymously sourced tip. On the other side of town a hospital was being raided for every donor organ and cold cadaver it had stored. You looked back further and found that the fire that had erupted in the train station two months ago was marked down as suspected arson, but there had been no arrests. The rescue effort had taken hours, and in that time, six missing persons reports had gone unfiled due to the understaffing at the Department. None had as yet been resolved You weren’t sure what the connection was yet, or if there was a connection at all. But despite all your failed investigations and dead end trails, you had a curious mind angled toward justice. Your gut told you something was happening here. This was a lead you couldn’t allow yourself not to follow.
The sun had barely just gone down, the tops of the steel buildings still shining with the soft blues and grays of a polluted sunset. You’d be quick, just to the news office a few blocks up and home again. Soft shoes padded lightly on the pavement, and you pulled your hoodie sleeves down. The seasons oscillated violently in Blüdhaven and though it was hardly over a month into fall, there was a chill mixed with the smells of sulfur and cigarette smoke in the air.
You tossed a casual look over your shoulder. Just one. Just enough to be aware of your surroundings while still projecting that you were willing to mind your business. A lie, but one you’d grown skilled at. It was a habit quickly learned by any investigator. And sure… maybe you were just an intern, but this report would change that.
It was that strange part of dusk when it wasn’t quite dark out, so the street lamps had yet to flicker on - the ones that worked, anyway. But the sun was completely swallowed by the crowd of buildings on the horizon, leaving only a lazy breath of light in the dank air. The streets looked relatively barren as they usually got around dusk, between the upstanding citizens tucking themselves into safety and the unsavories having yet to emerge from their niches and shadows. It was disquieting, but you would make your fortune on the trouble.
The night guard on the ground floor of the news building raised a brow at you when you arrived.
“Evening,” he said, inquiring only with his eyes.
“Hello,” you answer, brushing by him. You stand at the elevator a moment with your lips pursed.
“Didn’t bring your key card?”
“I was in a hurry.”
“Ah,” he answers. “When are you not?”
His tone was not unkind but it did have a certain amount of pity you didn’t appreciate. It wasn’t the first time you showed up past dark chasing a lead. You had a bit of a reputation in the office for digging up stories that usually led to nothing but trouble and more questions, as well as a mess for your seniors to clean up.
In the elevator, you tallied your evidence. Three months, one night each month exactly twenty days apart each time. Blüdhaven PD receives a call about some crime or crisis that required their full attention. At the very same time, a strange move is made in the shadows by unknown players. But so much happened under the cops noses in Blüdhaven, and so many of them were already corrupt. Why bother to stage a distraction at all?
Ah you thought as the elevator doors pinged and slid open. Nightwing.
The vigilante had uprooted Blüdhaven’s underworld with his appearance two years ago. Making a mockery of the Police Force and a panicked scramble among anyone with their hands in shady deals. Nobody ever knew how he got his intel, which gang he would hit, when he was going to show up, or what he would do. Some of your coworkers wrote about him like he was the Superman, charming and courageous, always taking time to toss a wink to the reporter on scene before disappearing. The Prince of Blüdhaven
“You should have seen it!” They would say upon returning from an on site interview. “He wouldn’t comment, but god those dimples.”
They saw him as a charismatic, humorous boy who existed to do showy flips and only cracked skulls as a side hustle.
But in his deeds, he really was quite like his mentor - Gotham’s own Batman. A figure of shadow and mystery, a symbol of fear to make criminals watch over their shoulders everywhere they went. If he did a little more flexing than Batman did, so what? What did that have to do with good journalism?
If criminals didn’t know where Nightwing would be, they would just have to put him somewhere. You tugged down the box of copies your boss had you make of the public access police records from the last six months. It had been mostly busywork to keep you out of trouble, evidenced by the thin layer of dust on the box’s lid signifying its disuse. But tonight they would serve you. You dug out every file on major, city-wide news sort of crimes and made scans of them on your phone. Then you plucked out the physical copies of the reports detailing the fire, the garage raid, and the drug bust and slid them into one folder. If this came to nothing, none of your coworkers needed to be the wiser, but this way at least it would be harder for them to trace your line of thinking if they figured you were up to something. You’d really had enough of their teasing. Returning to put your desk to rights after putting the box back in storage, you noticed a photo that had slipped from one of the folders. You didn’t recognize the men in it. They were shaking hands, faces blurry behind rainy glass. A stakeout photo. Unsure if it was anything worthwhile, you tucked it into your desk and slipped back into the elevator. The floors pinged by one by one until you were back in the lobby.
“Find what you needed, miss?” The security guard asked,holding open the heavy access door.
You smiled wearily.
“I hope.”
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
Outside, the street lamps had finally flickered on. Dim and useless, providing only that false safety invented by a child hiding their feet beneath the blanket and knowing that no monster could reach them there.
It was too bad that you were not a child. And in Blüdhaven, monsters were real.
The sidewalks were no longer barren, populated by crowds gathering to smoke outside of bars and nightclubs. A few teenagers were lighting off firecrackers in the middle of a street, cackling and dancing like cultists as the sparks screamed towards cars parked along the curbs.
It wasn’t really founded for you to be any more paranoid than any other night, yet an eerie feeling was pricking at your scalp, goosebumps crawling over your neck. The cold wasn’t so bothersome now as the feeling of certainty that something was wrong.
The recent string of attacks, leaving victims hurt but never dead, nothing taken from them, no apparent motive but the sport of hunting innocents. The two biggest gangs in Bludhaven had been caught on a massive scale for crimes they’d been committing for years in the shadows. Though none of the police reports ever admitted it, you knew Nightwing had to have been the one to make the busts. Drug cooks had been found knocked out cold and tied to their own lab tables when the police had arrived. The garage had been wide open when they got there, hands broken in car doors and parts strewn about bloodied like weapons. People were pulled from the fire by a shadowy figure with a charming smile who they’d all identified as Nightwing. How had he gotten that information? Did he learn of the secondary crimes after the fact? Did he know even as they were happening?
You take a turn towards your apartment building and your heart sinks before you even have a chance to really process what you’re seeing. Two figures huddled close in the slick shadow between two streetlights, passing a bag between them. A drug deal. Not uncommon, but not any sort of thing you wanted involved in tonight. You take a step backward to tuck around the corner and take another way but one man lifts his head, catching you in a full wash of yellow streetlight. He takes a step forward as you take another back. “Hey!” He shouts. He did not sound angry. His voice was smooth, simply surprised by your presence. Nonetheless it made your heart sink. So you ran.
Two pounding sets of footsteps gave chase.
Shit. You thought as you peeled around the corner, tripping on an uneven cobble, righting yourself before your knee could hit pavement. The men were shouting behind you, calling words you couldn’t make out over the rush of blood and wind in your ears. I am going to die. I am going to suffer and then I am going to die with all these stupid useless files on me and I won’t even have anything to show for this career. All that work and for what?
Then the only word you could think was: Why? Why? Why?
Your feet skid to a stop beneath you when another man rounds the corner of an alleyway. You’re not really even sure how far you ran.
“Listen.” He says. His hair is blonde, slicked back behind his ears with a natural slime. Even his grin is oily.
“I didn’t see anything.” You say immediately. Instinct. A good one, maybe, if you’d had it three minutes ago.
“What’s in the folder?” Greaseball says, nodding to the malina clutched desperately in your hand. He opens his palm toward you and bile burns under your tongue. Shit shit shit. You were holding months worth of police reports on drug schemes and gang activity.
Fuck this. You think as the two behind catch up, one gripping an arm of your hoodie. Fuck Bludhaven. If I survive this I’m moving to Metropolis. Central City. Montana. Anywhere but this shit fucking city. Who cares if you wanted to be a crime journalist and there’d be less crime to report? Dreams change.
You throw an elbow behind you without looking and there’s a shrieked curse.
“Nice one.” A voice comes from above, smooth and melodic. “Kind of stole my thunder, though.”
There is a cracking sound, and you were certain that one of them had struck you back, certain the fear had just delayed the pain by half a second. But then there was another, and a grunt, and the man was releasing you. Beneath you your legs wobbled and you tilted into a brick wall for support, tucking the folder close to your chest. A shadow slipped through the air in pursuit of the two others who fled, and everything felt like it was happening in slow motion, or like you were watching your own vision though a screen.
Nightwing. your brain said, though you couldn’t recall the train of thought that had taken you there. You knew so much about him, of course, but you never thought you’d see him like this.
One of the men who’d fled attempted to pull a gun. Nightwing, in what your half stunned mind recognized as showmanship, bent backward onto his hands and swung a brutal kick, sending the weapon clattering towards you. And the groaning man pushing to his feet. He looked to the gun, then to you.
Everything was moving at full speed again, clear as day.
Your eyes burned as you scrambled for the gun, landing on your hands and knees. Just as your fingers brushed the weapon a brutal grip curled around your ankle, dragging you back, chin busting against the pavement. Vision white from the impact, you kicked upward with all the force in you and the man collapsed atop you with a grunt, scrambling over your back to get to the weapon before you did. His bloody nose from your earlier strike was dripping onto the asphalt in front of you as you grappled. You rolled over with a shrill cry, knocking him off and crawling forward enough to reach the weapon. Even when it was in your grip you kept crawling, only battling to your feet when you couldn’t hear his harsh breath anymore. When you turn, he is on his feet, too.
One step, then another towards you. The gun is cold in your hands. You lift it towards him.
“Okay!” He says, then again. Quieter. “Okay.”
There’s blood smeared over most of his face, his nose still gushing. His eyes are brown.
You shake your head. He shakes his.
“Okay.” He breathes.
Crack.
He crumbles to the pavement. When you look up, Nightwing is melting from the shadows to retrieve the stick he had thrown, shaking his head.
“Well that was tragic. Thanks for not shooting.” He says, one side of his mouth lifting in a devastating smile. Living and working in Blüdhaven the past few years, you’d seen plenty of pictures of Nightwing, blurry things taken in motion in the dead of night. But seeing him like this was something else entirely. The black suit was fitted to every ridge and muscle, armored around the chest and shoulders beneath the iconic blue bird.
“Not worth the murder charge.” you reply, voice all air, eyes and hair certainly wild. Hot blood was dripping down your chin but the cut itself was numb. The vigilante grins wider, turning from pitiful to amused in a second.
“Not exactly the explanation I would’ve liked but we got to the same place in the end.” He reached out to take your jaw in his gloved hand and tipped your head back. Strands of inky hair fell over his forehead as he tilted his own head to study the wound. “Are you alright?”
And you’re not quite sure why you said what you did, then. In the days that followed you would torture yourself over it, agonizing about why you couldn’t just keep a single thought to yourself. Did you think you were helping him? Were you trying to prove the vigor of your great detective’s mind? Whatever the case, you had looked Nightwing square in the eyes and told him:
“You’re in trouble.”
“I bet.” Nightwing answered dryly without missing a beat, an unenthused rasp in his voice. He released your chin and offered you an arm.
“I’ll walk you home and you can tell me all about why you think so.”
𓎢𓎠𓎟𓎠𓎡𓎢𓎠𓎟𓎠𓎡𓎢𓎠𓎟𓎠𓎡𓎢𓎠𓎟𓎠𓎡
A/N
I’ve never posted fanfic on Tumblr before and i actually haven’t written one in kinda a long time. i’m a teensy bit nervous. But i wanted to write it so here it is 🤑🤑🤑
okay i’m partway though writing my first post but lmk if you guys might like it:
Dick Grayson x Fem Investigative Reporter! Reader:
Reader is looking into a string of crimes in which Nightwing is manipulated night after night into busting up flashy, outrageous distractions. At the same time across town, weapons, cadavers, and people are going missing. Nobody knows who is doing it, or why. Nightwing and reader run their investigations in parallel lines, each for their own reasons wanting the other off the case.
Would probably be a series / mini series because I am bad at containing oneshots :(
